Shabbos Schmooze: The Priceless Gift of Removing Your Headphones

It's time for a story! So take a break from the cleaning, let the warm, fresh challah rest and cool as it fills the room with smells of Shabbos. And join me for a brief schmooze about an all too familiar scenario and a uniquely different outcome.

It was 4:15 this afternoon and my workday was done. I love my job and I was very ready to go home! I have a lot to do tonight to get ready for Shabbos. It's been a busy week at work as well as outside of it. By the time I finally made my way out the door to begin my mile long trek to the city-bus stop, all I wanted to do was put my headphones on and listen to some music. I was deep in thought about my ostensibly important to-do list, thoughts of the workday I'd just completed, worries about this and frustrations at that when I saw her.

She is small in stature, 83-years-wise and quite the little pistol! I've seen her often. She walks slightly stooped at a slow and steady pace up the same street I take to get to the same bus stop. She pushes a cart and I've never bothered to look and see what's inside. Her trek is interrupted every few feet when she stops, leaves her cart, walks up to a nearby tree and gently pats its trunk, quietly mumbling. She stops at every tree. There are a lot of trees along that street. She ends her trek at the bus stop where she waits, quietly peering into the distance for the arrival of the bus. After a while, her anticipation becomes more vocal as she anxiously awaits the bus that is ostensibly always late.

The first time we were together at the bus stop, she asked me if I knew what time it was. I responded, smiled, and we commiserated on the woes of waiting for this bus. She seemed so sweet and kind and as the bus finally pulled up in front of our stop, I extended my hand and offered to help her with her cart. Her sweet and kind demeanor suddenly shifted. She grew enraged and loudly declined my offer. She yelled at me, at the driver, possibly at the whole world, that the day she needs help she'll just stay home. "I'm terribly sorry ma'am," I said. "I didn't mean any offense." And I sat down in my seat. I put my headphones on. I tried to blink back the tears burning in my eyes.

I cried because she reminded me of my own late grandmother and in a way, causing pain to this complete stranger felt no different than the possibility of ever having caused pain to my beloved Nana, may her neshama be blessed. But I also cried because even if my intentions were right, my actions caused this woman hurt and that was wrong. I felt I should say something more to her. Apologize again and explain that I understood I'd been insensitive. And yet, I was silent. I said nothing because I was embarrassed and ashamed and stubborn. And also a little indignant that because I was only trying to help, I was right and had nothing to apologize for!

The woman reached her stop and as she made her way down the aisle of the bus to get off, she angrily muttered at everyone in her path. A few stops after when I prepared to disembark, the driver stopped me and told me that this lady is all sugar and spice until she's offered help. Apparently I was not the first to be on the receiving end of her soliloquy. He told me she is 83 years old and has lived here her whole life. She was a school teacher and still tutors children around town. "Don't offer to help her, though," he admonished, "'cuz she gets mean!" I shrugged the incident off that day. Every so often I saw her again. Sometimes I saw her yell at grown men who fell into the same unfortunate trap of a scenario. (Some of them also had tears in their eyes afterward.) And until today, I didn't even speak another word to her.

So when I arrived at our bus stop with my headphones on, my hood up and every means of remaining camouflaged I could think of, I was not at all wanting to be disturbed. Surely all of my personal thoughts were more important than even taking a minute to extend a friendly smile--especially to someone who may not receive it so well. But then she asked me for the time. I somewhat begrudgingly removed my headphones and reached into my coat pocket for my cell phone. "It's 4:35," I responded.  "The bus should arrive in about ten minutes." I put my headphones back on and turned up the volume to my i-pod. Barely a minute later, I saw she was speaking to me again. I turned off the i-pod. I took down my hood. I removed my headphones and decided to listen. She spoke at length about the weather, the temperature, the bus routes and other daily minutia. When the bus finally sidled up to the curb, she asked me to board ahead of her. I thanked her and proceeded and then I took my seat. I thought for a moment to put my headphones back on but then thought better of it. For the remainder of our short ride together, we talked. Nothing deep, nothing life altering, just friendly conversation between complete strangers who happened to board a city bus headed downtown.

When she reached her stop, she bid me a pleasant day. She smiled and waved at the driver, offering well wishes to everyone in her path. I put my headphones back on and turned on my music thinking to myself that I must really have brightened her day and what a gift I had given of being willing to listen and smile. And then I immediately felt foolish. For I realized as a warm smile and tranquility spread across my own face that I, in fact, was on the receiving end in this scenario. This woman truly gave me a priceless gift. No more was my mind corrupted by meaningless thoughts, worries and frustrations. Rather, I was arriving home to prepare for Shabbos and fulfill my evening chores b'simcha--with joy! Moreover, I learned that to act kindly from a place of selfishness may still have a pleasant outcome, but to act kindly from a place of selflessness is what constitutes true chesed (Hebrew: kindness).To step outside of the ticker tape of our own mishigas (Yiddish for nonsense, craziness)--opens up our souls not only to be truly giving people, but also truly receive the innumerable lessons that can only be gleaned from a complete stranger at a city-bus stop.

I thought back, also, to the way I watched this woman walk. Stooped, slow, and steady, stopping every few feet to gently pat a tree before she'd continue on her way... And I wondered what it is about those trees that incites her loving reaction? Perhaps, it is their familiarity. Surely this woman who has lived and walked here her whole life has known some of these trees from the time they were saplings. Surely she has seen people come and go. Surely she has been offered help and maybe at times she has received it. But today she walks alone. Stooped. Slow. Steady. And with confidence. Wisdom. Dignity. Those trees don't offer her any unsolicited help, they just stand sturdy and strong through the inevitable arrival and departure of city buses and pedestrians alike. They may change with the seasons and bend with the storms, but internally they remain the same: predictably upright, silent and strong.

Lessons come in many forms and education is invaluable. From the trees, and from this unique individual, we, too, can learn the beauty and kindness of being able to stand upright, silent and strong. We, too, can relate to the tug of time and the passing of the seasons. But like the trees and like the old woman, we must bend with the storm rather than allow it to break us. We can be overcome or we can overcome. And when all else fails, may we find the humility and kindness to take off our headphones, smile, talk less and listen more. Shabbat Shalom!